


Ersatz

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Masturbation, Other, Porn, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-31
Updated: 2009-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The only disgust he feels is for himself, for taking so long to find the courage to make this pilgrimage he is now on.</i></p><p>For the prompt: "Sylar's first time with one of those fancy vibrators which massages the prostate and the perineum at the same time".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ersatz

He doesn't go to church that night, feels only the faintest flutter of guilt for it in his core. He's never felt a part of this new parish, not without Mother beside him in the pews, pushing him to mingle with the congregation. It isn't like it is at home, where the priests know all his sins from childhood, and every mass he attends there is a penance for them to note. Here, he's just another soul looking for salvation, and deep in his gut, he seems to finally understand that kneeling on the cold flagstone floor, berating himself before a cross, isn't where he'll find it.

So he bows his head as he passes the gates and pulls his collar up against the evening chill, seeking sanctuary instead in the arms of temptation. He sees himself reflected back in blacked out windows, thankful, for once, for the thick framed glasses he wears that help to hide that hopeful, _searching_ look he sees in his eyes. And when he boldly pulls open the door and sets the bell jangling wildly above, the only disgust he feels is for himself, for taking so long to find the courage to make this pilgrimage he is now on.

It's lurid and loud and overwhelming; his pupils dilate in awe as he stands, still in the doorway, reeling at what he sees. Then, he lets the door swing shut behind him and his eyes narrow, gaze sweeping in a predatory arc over the riches spread before him. He's come here with no clear idea of what it is he wants, or rather, he wants too much, too many secret, unspoken fantasies writhing, intermingled in his breast and his fingers twitch to simply _take_ everything he craves. But he tempers himself, holds back and focuses, stalking up and down the narrow, over laden aisles until he stands in front of what it is he somehow knows he _needs_.

His hands go instinctively to the shelf, delving in amongst the boxes to pull out what he's unconsciously been seeking; he feels that clicking, ticking rightness in his chest as he finally understands his own desires.

"That isn't really for beginners," an unwanted sales assistant pipes up at his elbow. "You might want to start with something slimmer, not so intense?"

She holds up another package for his consideration, less sleek, more sleaze, the product itself inside trying too hard for realism and only underscoring, in plastic veins and ridges, how very false it is.

"I know want I want," he says tersely, an unexpected smirk tugging at his lips when she recoils.

He limits himself to necessities: one carefully chosen magazine when he wants to take them all, a single bottle of lubricant when there are so many tantalising varieties to try. As he makes his way to the register, frivolities catch his eye. His fingers linger over a display of one-use, disposable cock rings in bright neon colours, textured and vibrating. But, there's a voice inside him that says that that's too much, too greedy and demanding; too much indulgence will always be distasteful.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Not tonight."

+

At home, he bolts and chains the door, draws the curtains tight. He lays the brown paper bag on a corner of his dresser, himself and it hidden safely behind a securely shut bedroom door. He wants to rip it open, tear off his clothes and plunge headfirst into an enactment of his every waking dream, but he's waited too long and wanted too much to allow himself to rush this. So, he carefully peels back the plastic draped over his bed, pulls back the covers until the single mattress is dressed with only a sheet. Then, he takes two clean white towels and spreads them on the bed, reverentially arranging his new purchases in a row, the lube beside the skin rag, the vibrator beside the lube. He breathes deep and takes a moment just to look, appreciate and anticipate.

His erection is heavy, swollen between his legs and as he sits to untie his laces, it's an exquisite game he plays, thighs tensing, squeezing, but hands never venturing down to touch. He teases himself as he pulls off his sweater, palms sliding up his chest, feeling out hard nipples beneath his shirt. Cuffs and collar are loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, socks shaken off and dropped into the hamper. His heart pounds as he unbuckles his belt, hands shaking as he coils it and packs it away in a drawer. Finally, in shirt and slacks alone, he treats himself, opening the box with quaking hands.

He's salivating with the vibrator in his hands, critical eyes examining its shape and calculating angles, until there's a fiery heat stoked in his gut with the knowledge of what the toy can, _will_ do. He smoothes his fingers along the length, circling fingers around its girth; the plastic rubs like a whisper against his skin. He strokes it once like a real cock, like he wants to stroke his own but won't, not yet. He presses his thumb to the textured arm that will press up against the swath of skin between his testicles and anus, and shudders with the promise of pleasure that winds through him. He flicks the switch and lets it rumble, shaking lustily in his hands.

It's with weak knees that he forces himself to the bathroom. Sweat slicks his brow as he carefully washes his new toy, hands immersed to the wrists in lukewarm soapy water. His penis is throbbing now, trapped against his thigh, each shift of his weight rubbing skin to dampening cotton until he gasps. But still he doesn't rush, too controlled, too proud for that; he meticulously dries every inch of toy before he lets himself move on.

And now, glasses discarded on the nightstand, he finally strips, worn clothes neatly folded. He appraises himself in the mirror, noting his own glassy eyes and flushed skin, his erection curving thickly up towards his belly. And instead of feeling shame, for his nudity and his wantonness, he only knows that _ticking_ deep inside that's whispering he's so _near_ to reaching his full potential. He only knows that this is more him than watches, sweater vests or prayers have ever been. He twists, admiring the play of lean muscles under too-pale skin and rakes his fingers proudly through the thick hair between his legs. He's masculine, exposed like this, virile and dominant in a way that no one who saw him in the shop could ever guess. He doesn't try to quell the swell of arrogance in his chest as he eyes the heft of his cock and the hang of his balls, taking simple, preening pleasure that he could have been the mould for so many of those toys that tempted.

He sits cross-legged on the bed, balls resting on the terrycloth of the towel, and he patiently turns the pages of the magazine he's bought. He glances only superficially at the pictures until he finds again the spread that had so captivated him in the store: a man, not unlike himself, lightly muscled and not waxed bare, spread and bent and used. His erection flushes hotter, balls now hypersensitive to the nap of the cloth on his delicate skin, every slight move of his body against the towel feeling like the lightest fingernail scratch over nerves almost too overwrought to take it. He studies the pictures closer, the way the model's muscles strain and his face contorts in ecstasy; memorises what it looks like to have another's hands pressed between his legs. Then he slicks his fingers with his brand new lube and lies back against the pillows, hips raised just off the bed as he teases at his entrance.

He's done this many times before, fingers wet with spit pressed inside himself as he tugs his cock and grunts, but never without the mantle of darkness for cover or the shroud of a blanket over him. In his mind's eye, his reflection in the mirror morphs with the pages set before him, and he has to bite his lip to know how exquisitely debauched he looks. He pumps one finger in and out, and then adds another, careful not to touch his cock too much, to ruin it all by being, at the eleventh hour, overeager.

He pulls his fingers from himself, sighing gutturally at the loss and rocks up on his knees, thighs spread wide so that his ass rests comfortably on the towel below. He lubes the vibrator with diligent fingers and positions it between his legs. The rounded head taps against his entrance, and he has to scrunch his eyes shut tight to keep himself from letting go too soon. He bears down steadily, grimacing as he's stretched wider than he's prepared for, scowls at his own ineptitude when he has to stop as the burning of that muscle ring feels too much like pain.

Angry at his own shortcomings, he rewets his fingers with lube, arches his back and caresses the cleft of his ass. He enters himself from a different angle from before, shoving in with three fingers instead of two, and it takes all his strength to keep himself braced on one quivering arm and not collapse. Now his fingertips brush unwittingly over his prostate and they seem to separate, twist and stretch of their own accord. He's panting, body streaked with sweat, fucking his own hand. And this time when he positions the vibrator where it needs to be, there's only a momentary resistance before his body gives.

The breath seems sucked from his chest, his inner walls clenching and relaxing at the vibrator's stuttering slide deeper. He grasps his penis loosely and pumps back what little hardness he has lost while being breached. And, with his cock so _warm_, twitching, and alive against his palm, there's a niggling disappointment in some corner of his brain that _that_ isn't replicated by the cool plastic deep inside him. He shakes it off, sinks down as far as he can, groaning into his solitary room as he's stretched by the plug's wide base. He twists it a little, feels it shift, and he's gasping as the bulbous head drags over his prostate. He grits his teeth and settles it there, resting the tip directly on that spot, and moans at the feel of the textured arm that's running snugly along his taint.

He has both palms flat to the bed, now, and his head hangs down, thick, dark hair falling forward, unruly, as sweat beads on the back of his neck. His thighs are tense and his toes are curled; he can't stop himself from rocking back and forth, to move the plug inside himself even as he aims to rest, adjust and let it settle. He drizzles lube down his cock, glad for the towels when he pours too much and it puddles wetly between his thighs. Gingerly, he strokes himself, body alive with searing heat and jolts of pleasure, so close to being overwhelmed at the simple intimacy of his own touch.

It's with a quivering hand that he reaches behind his balls, the slippery pads of his fingers resting for one hesitant moment on the button. Then he presses down and turns it on, his free hand fisting desperately in the sheets as, instantly, vibrations judder through his core. It's more intense he's been imagining, more intense than he's dared to hope for; instinctually he thrusts back and forth, head thrown back as he ruts against the bed, rolling his hips to vary the pressure on his perineum and slide the jittering head of the vibe up and down over his prostate. His mouth is hanging open, a gasping rictus of pleasure, and when he swallows, gulps down the air he needs so desperately, his teeth chatter in time to the buzzing buried deep inside him. The pleasure is a bubbling, frothing wash of need and heat low in his groin, and his chest is tight, so tight with the strain of holding back that every breath he takes rasps brutally through him.

Seconds feel like an eternity of ecstasy so much like torture and he curls his fist around his cock, fumbling blindly for his release. He barely strokes himself at all before he's utterly undone, bellowing out his orgasm as semen shoots from him in spurts, streaking over not just the towels but the plastic bed cover he'd thought so neatly tucked out of the way. His whole body trembles in the aftermath, from the force of his climax and the still rumbling toy between his legs. He collapses forward, sticky towel clinging obscenely to his abdomen, draws one knee to his chest and clumsily shuts off the vibe. Weakly, he works it from his ass; underneath the cosseting fog of his afterglow, his body aches from the stretch and strain inside.

The sweat on his skin begins to cool. He shivers and feels suddenly abjectly hollow at his core, tugs a blanket around his shoulders and wishes there was someone there to hold him close.


End file.
